


Stories to Tell: Experiences of a Spoiled Little Girl

by Pop66



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Broken Family, Coming of Age, Diary/Journal, Disassociation, Divorce, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Found Family, Friends to Enemies, Growing Up, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lost Love, Neglect, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Rambling, Reflection, Self-Destruction, Self-Reflection, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, The Oldest House (Control), learning to be alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29898855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pop66/pseuds/Pop66
Summary: There's not enough time in the world to explain my thoughts to those I hold dear. No one should be forced to listen to me, I am not entitled to their time. So I will write them down here in hopes someone will read them, the simple understanding of my heart and acknowledgement of my thoughts. Spoiled little girls have all the time in the world to reflect and look back on their lives, yet to be spoiled she must act sweet and kind. Good little girls are spoiled as long as they are seen, not heard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of childhood memories I've looked back on, from school days to back alley arguments. None are particularly tragic unless I warn them to be so.

Core memories are important, the composition of aspects surrounding your heart, mind and body dictate what kind of person you will be. Yet, in this classroom, an autumn morning in a dimply lit classroom, memories of my past were the furthest from my mind. Like shattered glass beneath my feet, jagged shards laying flat on the tile floor with me at the center. Alone with my thoughts as I tried to gather what I had seen that morning, like picking starlight from the sky, clues scattered across the field that I had to place together to form a cohesive explanation for what I had saw and heard. I had never been smart, calculating radios the square root of a triangle was not on my to do list. My list of chores was long, the eldest young girl of a growing family had always been my title.

That morning had gone like any other, waking in the morning to pack the lunches of the children, laying out medications and readying permission slips, placing pens beside the papers to ensure easy swift access as my parental units left and said their goodbyes. One by one, the produce of my yelling brought bed-headed sleepy young boys and girls to dress themselves in the living room. A habit formed in childhood, laundry in baskets going unfolded, neglected from the tired Mother who had made dinner the same night. If not exhausted from the screaming and yelling, arguments on the whiskey colored floorboards, she'd surely be tired from handling two young boys who would not listen to me, nor my sisters, for the life of them. So, laundry stayed in the bins to be fished out by weary hands. 

After all my prepping, I still had to wake my Mother from her sleep. She was by no means a heavy sleeper, so it surprised me that she hadn't woken up to the sound of laughter and sarcastic teasing. Four children, myself, and my parents lived in this house. My Father was the money maker for many years, so it wasn't uncommon to have him out of the house. Though, I never quite understood what he did. Looking back on it he was a foster care worker, as he always had a family home, and a sibling home. I hadn't seen my father for the past week, maybe longer so I had assumed his job had gotten very busy. Child care was incredibly hard! I knew that not from experience but word of mouth, after all I was a measly little helper. I packed the lunches, walk them to school, entertained them and sorted out their arguments but I could never understand how difficult it was to raise children. I was a child myself after all. My hand reached the doorknob and gave it a confident spin, only to be abruptly stopped. A locked door. 

Locked doors weren't uncommon but I most definitely knew what it meant, from crying, to yelling, to long periods of absence, it meant something was wrong. Something I could not control, millions of responses were downloaded into my mind as I gauged a reaction. Calling out to her was met with high pitched condolences for sleeping in, shuffling and a deep voice. 

This voice was not the voice of my Father. 

Shock, disgust, confusion, fear, millions of emotional responses ran though me as I tried to make sense of just what might be happening. I'm certain my Mother knew too, as she told me to run along to school, that she'd take care of the younger three so my brother and I could go to class early for once. Being met with a situation I had not previously encountered sent me into a state of obedience. My mother was kind, there was no reason to set her off by purposely pushing her for information, who ever this strange man was, I knew my mother would not let him hurt my siblings after all. We had learnt our lesson, her and I, about trusting just any man around her offspring. Helplessly, childlike, I took my brother, packed his medications in his bag and set out for the long, half hour walk down the chilly side walks to my urban high school. 

9:30 am

My phone was dead, my eyes were wondering, what had I seen? Surely, I was confused but there had to be some reasonable explanation. There had been no warnings, no clues, my parents certainly had their disagreements but I didn't take my Mother as a no good cheater. Surely, it had to be a family member she was hiding from us, perhaps an uncle she needed to stay the night. But why in her room? She hadn't been particularly close with anyone in the family, none of us were close to our Father's family. So who was it? Why didn't I know them? Quietly, I turned my head to my seat mate, the only partner I had close enough to reach a hand out for advice. Surely, she knew what was going on, Y had to help me. She was a kind person, I knew this. She put up with me, she put up with her. Even if the her was the worst friend in the world. Y, was texting on her phone, surely texting her. 

X was Y's closest friend, she had told me so. X and Y actively shared music tastes, talked about things I could not understand, for if they told me I would only ruin it. I didn't mind, I knew Y and X were different. I knew they were hurting in a way I could never understand. I only wished Y would divide her time among the both of us, as for once, I needed Y now. 

"Listen, X almost committed last night, I don't know what's going on with you but it's probably not a big deal. Stop bothering me, you're behind on your work and I'm really tired of you bugging me first thing in the morning everyday."

I most likely dramatized this, I was an emotional little girl after all. I don't actually know what Y had said about her, or why X's problem was more important right now. Y might not have even brought X up at all, I just knew it was X from the name on her screen. What I did know was I was more alone than I had thought, my problems were so insignificant, my emotions were nothing and the deep routed sense of loss amplified as Y's place in my world quickly vanished. I was alone and I was confused, now unbelievably hurt by Y as she continued to text on her ipod. I did nothing that period, in the quiet class of twenty four, in front of the desk of the teacher who was no where to be found, I quietly cried. Silent tears had been my forte, sleeves over my palms as I shielded my face from the world. The one thing I had in this world was family, as friends came and go with time, a fact I had known previously. Yet, I always expected friends to drift with time, not abruptly sever their ties in return for time with another. Pathetically, from this time forward, I still tried to reach out. Not to ask for her advice, just her time. Someone to sit with, to watch eat lunch, chat about our favorite shows. I had no place in her world, sitting out in the fields as Y and X hid from me. I began to realize how spoiled I had been, for in the face of loss, without their riches I was nothing but an empty husk of anger and anxiety. 

These days, I wish those girls the best. They hurt me, yes, but I came out fine in the end. I feel selfish for the hatred I had for them from this point on until a few years ago, I had no clue what they were going through and I choose not to know. I had no right to demand their attention, as they were only trying their best. The vile abuse sent from them to me were actions of broken, lost girls, they were just like me and I owe them solidarity. To focus solely on what pain they caused me and not understand the pain they were going through themselves is immature, they were only searching for their light in this world, they had no time for my dark thoughts to slow them down as my candle of easy living was blown out. 

On the bright side, friends were soon to come as calculated scribbles of an unseen girl and her only companion were soon to be my guiding light. 


	2. The lost and the spoiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had always thought my brother and I were close, yet, as years went by it became apparent we most certainly knew nothing about one another. Or more eloquently said: I never knew how much pain he was in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has depictions of physical violence, if this is triggering to you, please disregard this chapter.

Siblings are inherently close, from birth, the past, the present and forever more, you are tied by blood or emotional attachment. Among the few worries in my life, my adequacy was among them. More accurately, my inadequacy. Being insecure was always depicted as the vanity of a girl's features, the way she carried herself with pride and tore others down around her was my singular example of insecurity that I should strive to distance myself from. I had a handful of sisters, all much older than me who strived for specific things. The eldest seemed aimless but she loved to draw, I remembered the few nights in her bedroom, filling in the coloring sheets as she drew shoe designs on printer paper she had brought home from school. Looking back on this, I believe this was her aspiration in life. To become a designer, known world wide for her beautiful monochrome designs that would sell to the biggest celebrities. I believe the second oldest was very, very tired. These days I know she was in just in pain, yet her torment of me burns hotter than an iron branding rod. Had I just hung up my jacket, done my chores, did as I was told as I walked through the door from my ten minute journey home from elementary school I might've set a good example for my siblings trailing behind me.

  
Spoiled, a spoiled little girl.

  
I thought I was so tired, from a days of play, addition and subtraction, I was always so entitled to rest. Screaming could've been avoided if I had just done what I was told to do, surely, I could've easily made it a habit. I made her life incredibly hard, she was only 16. She didn't have it easy, two unmedicated children, two toddlers, myself and my mischievous big brother. Picky eaters, fighters with violent tendencies, explosive personalities and sticky hands for snacks before bed. I just wished she had learned to tame her anger, as for every harsh tug, every screaming match and every harsh word only led us children to distain her all the more deeply. I'm sure she had it hard, I'm certain of it. However, she did not have the right to treat my brothers the way she did, she didn't need to make them cry, she didn't need to frighten them with horror stories before bed. I wished I never had sisters at all, I wished for the day I only ever had brothers.

  
It's funny, the wishes you make as a child, no matter how impossible it seems, the chances of it coming true are one in a million. Surely, I couldn't just wish away my family, that was work of fiction.  
After all, I loved my third sister. She was kind, unbelievably playful, the complete opposite of myself. We shared few traits, brown hair, tan skin, a bedroom, an ear to lend to one another, our love of camp rock, that was all we really had in common. She was sporty and always seemed to have wonderful days, taking us across the city, park to park, buying us slurpees and giving us imaginative game to play. Our room was full of projects, while I was withdrawn, insecure, messy, rowdy and impolite, she was like a wonderful Princess who descended from the heavens to fill our little world with light. Black lights to light up our rooms with highlighter covered paper, cut into star shapes along the ripped out magazine pages filled with her favorite boy bands. Her talk about love, fashion, friendship and romance movies always confused me, a nine year old had very little in common with a fourteen year old, yet I always felt at home with her.

  
None of us children would defy her, for her anger came in the shape of pure disappointment, being ignored by our kindest sister had always caused me a great deal of pain. To be ignored by the one sibling I felt truly saw me was one of the greatest pains I experienced in my young life, being as sheltered as I was, it was world shattering. So I behaved, I learnt to cook, I hung up my jacket, I played games with my brothers and helped with the dishes. After all, I was her helper! I was the fourth sister, I had to pick up the slack where she could not.  
I believe this sense of authority ultimately sent me into a spiral of superiority over my mischievous brother. To make a long story short, my brother was a december baby and I was a june baby, six months apart in the same year, we fought for our spot next to our favorite sister. The Princess and the mischievous boy shared a Mother, surely they would be closer and in a lot of ways, they were. In instances I could not understand my brother's foolish tendencies, I was told I could never understand, as my brother only lived with us half of the time. I had no way of truly knowing what he was thinking, so I shouldn't be so harsh on him.

  
One simple request, if I had been nicer to him, if I hadn't been so mean, I wonder if he would be by my side today.

  
Like rivals we fought for our spot in our family, we fought and we battled, in games and in talents. Every challenge he won, he did so through hard work. Every one I won, I won through luck. My brother could do anything he set his mind to, he was so smart, so cunning, he knew exactly what to say and how to say it and things would get done efficiently. All I knew how to do was slyly lie through my teeth and play my cards right to get what I want. I was no different than a thief. As we grew, our distance only grew larger, we fought harder and we became meaner as we grew. Physical fighting to our limits was always a fun past time for the two of us, until it simply wasn't anymore.

  
Fighting got out of hand, I'm not sure when it started but limits were beginning to get crossed. Signs to stop were being ignored, frustrations were being taken out on each other and it quickly became apparent that during my time learning to 'become more girly', I had loss the technique to read him properly. A quiet summer evening, sitting at the table, the spoiled girl began to complain about her Mother. The mother who wouldn't answer her texts about some drink she wanted from whatever store, complaining, complaining, complaining, crash. I had pushed him over the edge, this was a real hit. This was no play fighting hit but a full swing, flat knuckled, anger filled punch as pain seared through my arm. That was the first time I screamed in pain, I begged him to stop, kicking and evading his hits as my second eldest sister came barreling into the room to separate us. He didn't hit her, his anger was directed at me and me alone. I hid in my mother's room until she returned, sobbing out of fear and out of pain, I had never seen a rage like that. Not from my brother, my brother who I loved so dearly yet treated so terribly. I believe I learned my lesson that day, a lesson in empathy and a cruel, harsh reminder that I was just a spoiled little girl. My brother had seen real pain, he had enough anger to send him into a rage like that, a rage I could never hope to dream of mustering up. I believe this incident was the beginning of our segregation, as he further put his anger onto the younger of the two medicated children. I should've paid closer attention to his mood, I shouldn't have sent the younger down when I could've easily watched him. I ran down the carpeted staircase, adrenaline took me over and I shoved my brother away from the younger and I could do nothing but scream. Scream at him for hurting someone younger than us, I was angry he put that anger on someone who couldn't defend themselves, I yelled until my sister's boyfriend descended the stairs and I cried. I cried in his chest because I was so scared and heartbroken, I knew I didn't understand, I could never understand but I knew what the pain of those punches were and I never wanted to see him do that to anyone else. We stopped fighting after this, he stopped coming over as often, we kept our banter to verbal exclusively until we ceased to speak at all.


End file.
